


for a place to call home

by ultalumna (yujael)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Final fantasy xii au, Gen, Road Trips, Viera Ignis, Viera Prompto, it takes place in ivalice except true to brand it's more peaceful, sorta - Freeform, they'll get there when they get there, theyre just on the road ya know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 00:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18377630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujael/pseuds/ultalumna
Summary: Prompto has always known that he's never fit in among the Viera. Leaving the forest he grew up in has, in hindsight, always been inevitable. Ignis, on the other hand, never expected to make a friend in Prompto. But once he does, he knows the inevitable when he sees it.Life after abandoning the Wood is a lonely thing for Viera, but it doesn't have to be if they take on the world beyond together.





	for a place to call home

**Author's Note:**

> Two notes: first; Square are a bunch of cowards for gender locking Viera in XIV, like honestly. Second; I fiddled with the lore a bit for much the same reason. Cowards. Male Viera exist in canon but don't live in the same villages and that's just bull. 
> 
> Okay but one last note: "male Viera wouldn't wear heels" my ass. You Know they do.

Prompto has always known that he’s different. He’s never quite fit in--not even in the village he was born in and especially not in Eruyt. Most Viera have pale hair, but his is too yellow and doesn’t quite match the white fur of his ears. Viera don’t usually have freckles, either. They’re usually taller than him, too, and better on their toes.

It’s not just his looks, though. When he was young, adults always cast sideways looks of disdain toward him, although thankfully they rarely slid into scorn, and the children never seemed to know what to do with him around.

He tells himself that it’s okay. He can still hear the whispers of the trees around him, the Green Word humming in his ears, and that’s enough.

But then the fires break out when he’s nearing the end of his childhood years, and great swathes of the outskirts of the Golmore Jungle are turned into ash, and the survivors of his village are forced to move deeper into the trees, seeking refuge in Eruyt, the largest of the southern Viera settlements. Things get worse for him after that--because as the survivors travel, they come across a small caravan of pilgrims and traders from outside the forest, beyond the Wood. They’re mostly Humes, but there are a few Bangaa among them and one tiny Nu Mou, and they’re nothing like Prompto has ever seen before. They _know_ things he’d never thought of before.

And while their time together is short, limited only to a brief trade of necessities and travelling advice over small campfires for one night, a small flame flickers to life in Prompto, a tiny candle that grows larger by the day.

Viera aren’t supposed to be curious about the happenings outside their home. They aren’t supposed to plead with the trees for such information needlessly, or actively seek out the foreign travellers passing near their villages--not unless they become Wood-Warders, tasked with protecting their home, and most of the Wood-Warders of Eruyt agree that he’s one of the most clumsy Viera they’ve ever met, too much so for such a responsibility--but Prompto’s curiosity is all but insatiable. He always wants to know _more_.

But in Eruyt, the deepest village, the most secretive, his curiosity is rarely tolerated. Before, he was simply different, odd in some way no one would ever name. Here, that oddity is lit up like a beacon by his endless pining for secrets and trivia he shouldn’t have. The village never completely ostracizes him because, despite everything, he’s still Viera, like them--he can still hear the Green Word and he can still travel Golmore’s hidden paths with ease--but they rarely mask their outright scorn and distaste.

It’s okay, he tells himself again. It stings, it hurts--because he wants to _share_ the things he finds, tidbits and trinkets alike, even though others rarely want what he has--but the trees still whisper to him. It’s okay.

It isn’t until another Viera a few years his senior finally takes pity on him when he nears his adult years and sits him down to explain why nobody else seems to want him back that Prompto starts to feel like it really _isn’t_ okay.

Ignis is only a few years older than him, but his voice is like the deeper tones of the Wood and his words carry the same wisdom of the village leader that he spends most of his time aiding. His skin is unblemished and his hair and ears are a properly pale shade of brown and white. Prompto has spoken with him a few times because while his features are as sharp as a typical Viera’s and then sharper again, they always seem to soften somewhat when Prompto speaks to him. When there are those rare instances where Prompto catches things that slip past the attentions of the Wood-Warders or the Salve-Makers, he passes them on to whoever is most likely to listen to him, which just so happens to be Ignis, who has never been cold with Prompto. He hasn’t been particularly _warm_ , either, but he’s never looked down at Prompto. He is, as far as Viera go, nice.

Which is probably why when Ignis brings him to a quiet treetop and explains that everyone else can practically _smell_ the difference in his blood--can smell the _Hume_ in him, hear it thrumming in his veins and distorting his voice when he speaks to the trees--Prompto immediately starts crying. Ignis gets flustered in turn, which would surprise Prompto if he weren’t so upset, but he _is_ upset and so Ignis winds up floundering for a way to calm him down, which doesn’t happen for a long time--because he’s _Viera_ , but nobody ever told him that he _isn’t_. Nobody ever told him that the parents who’d raised him before his arrival in Eruyt likely only did so out of pity, because the Wood likely asked them to. Nobody ever told him that he’s never going to be like them and _that’s_ why they’re never going to want him back.

For a moment during the entire breakdown, Prompto finds himself hating Ignis with a passion because at least before he could carry around the hope that if he somehow made himself useful enough then things would change, but now he knows nothing will, and that hope is ripped away like the last changing leaves in a storm. He’s always going to be alone and it  _hurts_.

But then Ignis’ voice begins to filter back in through the rush of wind and blood in his ears, and there is a hesitant hand on his shoulder, another on the top of his head, patting gently between his ears.

“Hush, now,” he’s saying, still sounding troubled and uncertain. “It’s all right. I--skies above, I never meant to cause you harm. Take a deep breath, won’t you? Listen to the breath of the leaves. Hush.”

Prompto does his best to hush, but only because he does as Ignis asks and listens to the leaves rustling around them, and they tell him _Hush, young one_ , too. He settles down as best he can and asks in a defeated tone, “What do you want?”

Because Ignis said that he hadn’t meant to cause harm, and so instead of saying nothing he brought it up. He must want something out of this.

Ignis gives him an apologetic look and it’s so genuine that it makes Prompto’s breath stutter because no one looks at him like that. Not ever.

“I only meant to tell you that which you didn’t already know because… You have never harmed the Wood, nor her children. Yet, for the circumstances of your birth, you are an outcast. And I do not believe it is deserved.”

Prompto stares at him in dumb shock. He tries to think of something to say, but there’s nothing. The tree whose branches they perch on is of no help either. He just blinks and hopes it conveys some of the thoughts whipping around in a flurry in his head.

“You have always managed to be somewhat of assistance to me,” Ignis continues, astonishing Prompto even more. “A fortnight ago, if you recall, you rediscovered a treetop path long thought overgrown during one of your forays into the jungle. And before that, a month ago or so, you were able to ascertain the location of a rare flower for the Salve-Makers.”

“Only because I was talking to Humes,” Prompto points out waveringly. Ignis should know that before he tries to justify how many times Prompto puts their people in danger by doing such things. Prompto hangs his head, looking down toward to village sprawling between the trees below, where the true Viera wander, graceful and aloof.

“Perhaps,” Ignis says, unconcerned. “But the Salve-Makers were able to treat a life-threatening illness, weren’t they? You have helped, Prompto--and so I would listen to what you have to say.”

Prompto slowly lifts his gaze back to Ignis, speechless. Ignis is sitting back on his haunches, eyes and ears trained on Prompto like an apprentice waiting on their teacher to begin, and Prompto has no idea what to do with that. What could he possibly know that Ignis doesn’t already? He’s already shared everything important that he knows--where the coeurls and malboros are migrating this time of year, and how well some of the hard to reach plants are doing during this dry spring they’re having. All those things.

Unless Ignis actually means… other stuff? Like the strange temperaments of the chocobos in the Ozmone Plain compared to the domestic breeds--whatever those creatures and that land look like--or like the odd uptick in mimics lately? Prompto hears such things from pilgrims making their way through the dangerous jungle all the time, but the Wood has never considered them of any importance. And even if it did, Prompto has never actually seen those things before. He has no context with which to understand them.

But Ignis is still there, expectant and--dare Prompto say it?--friendly. He’s waiting for Prompto to say something. Anything.

He knows that chocobos are birds. They’re apparently big enough to carry Humes and their belongings, but won’t venture into the thick jungle, no matter how well behaved they are. That’s what the pilgrims say, anyway. It made him sad to hear it because that means there are no chocobos in the Wood and so the Viera can’t ride them. If they could, they’d be able to travel between their villages much easier. Instead, they have to take paths that are getting overgrown or too well known by outsiders--or made dangerous because those outsiders keep disturbing other denizens of the jungle.

Prompto latches onto that. The last time he was wandering through the trees, he could have sworn he’d caught sight of a particularly dangerous basilisk. He’s not sure because he’s never actually seen one before, but he’s also pretty sure that snakes of that size aren’t really common in these reaches of Golmore. In his experience, most snakes stick closer to the ground and don’t come so close to the suspended paths.

But there was _definitely_ a big snake out there. He doesn’t know what kind, but if anyone can find out, it’s Ignis.

So, Prompto tells him about the basilisk. And Ignis listens.

 

 

***

 

 

Ignis has never been particularly interested in the outside world. He concerns himself with it as far as it concerns the Wood and her safety, but that’s just it--he has no need of all the goings on beyond the trees, the politics and everyday advancements of the Humes and the like. They are far beyond this realm, echoes carried on the wind, translated through the Green Word.

But he remembers the day Prompto came to Eruyt. Slipping into the village amidst a procession of weary refugees from the recent forest fires in the north, he’d been an anomaly from the start, eyes settling on nothing, ears twitching even when the Wood said nothing. Not to mention the wide berth the Viera around him gave him.

The reason why was unspoken then, too. Ignis could smell it when Prompto passed by him, a different tempo in his blood from the rest of the forest children. Half-blood, a step removed from outsider. But, according to the Wood, Viera all the same, and so Eruyt had accepted him without outward protest.

And Ignis, still an apprentice growing into his role, had followed in the steps of his tutor--and much of the village--and ignored him for the most part.

Prompto, however, is deceptively persistent in his quest to sate his curiosity, and Ignis comes to know him somewhat over the years as a result. He ventures into the jungle and brings back all manner of things. Sometimes, he returns with nothing more than useless trivia that he tries to impart on others who rarely listen. Other times he comes back with scraps he picked up, trinkets and curiosities left behind by travellers. These, he tries to show others but ultimately hoards away somewhere that Ignis doesn’t much care to know about.

Other times, though, he comes to Ignis with something useful--tips about groups of foreign hunters wandering where they shouldn’t be, or places where the Wood-Warders might need to concentrate their efforts and the Salve-Makers might have better luck finding ingredients. Ignis thanks him like he would anyone else for this information--and does not linger on the obvious brightening in practically his entire being every time--and passes it on to the appropriate parties.

Prompto, in his own way, helps the village without being asked despite being labelled a trouble maker for his efforts.

It occurs to Ignis, quite soon, that Prompto has no idea why he can never rid himself of the label. He continues to ramble about things few others want to hear, again and again, and does not seem to realize that the walls built between him and them will likely never chip away.

Ignis approaches one of the elders that had come to Eruyt with on the same day, and she confirms it. Prompto had come to their village as a babe and the Wood had asked them to care for one of their own even though he is only half that. The elder turns her nose up during the entire retelling, and Ignis very nearly curls his lip in distaste.

Prompto is different. It’s written in his inquisitiveness and the freckles on his skin. But he is not dangerous. He isn’t some insect, or some poor, sickly creature. He is, from what Ignis can tell, somewhat reckless, but that is hardly enough to earn what he’s been given.

So, when Ignis finally steps into his role as a minor aide within the village, able to act without the supervision of another advisor or an elder, he is the one to approach Prompto instead of the other way around.

After that day, Prompto comes to life much like the Wood does after a particularly harsh winter--slowly, but steadily, brightly, and then, all at once. He doesn’t wait for Ignis’ invitation to share the things he has learned from the pilgrims and traders in the jungle and he often asks Ignis to correlate the murmurs he hears with their records and find out more about things he isn’t sure about. Sometimes, Ignis needs only to look through scrolls in the village’s archives. Other times he needs to ask the Wood and relay a somewhat more confusing answer--the Green Word cannot describe things that don’t exist within its borders, after all. Nevertheless, Prompto is rarely withdrawn or shy around him anymore. He is a bright spot walking the dim paths of Golmore, a speck of the sun inhabiting their tranquil village.

One day, he even reveals to Ignis that he had successfully traded with a Bangaa pilgrim and received a book in exchange for a few of the trinkets he’d collected over time. They flip through the pages together, all of them filled with beautiful drawings of plants never seen in Golmore and detailed descriptions of their properties, and Ignis feels something akin to honour in his chest with the secret knowledge that he is the only one in Eruyt with whom Prompto is sharing this with.

It isn’t long until Ignis catches himself in quiet moments wondering about things he ought not to be wondering about. They have nothing to do with the Wood, the village, any of it. But Prompto had heard of something--or somewhere--called Nalbina, and Ignis has no idea what that could be. The word is not something he can translate, nor is it something the village has record of. The best he can say is that, according to the Humes on whom Prompto had been eavesdropping, the answer lies far to the north and is connected to cacti, which Ignis knows to be a species of plant found in dry, arid regions. Perhaps Nalbina is another Wood?

His own Wood has little to say on the matter, though.

_The echo, the mirage, the roots uprooted._

Ignis does not know what that means.

Another night, he finds himself wondering what flying must be like because Prompto had sneaked high into the trees and supposedly seen a great flying machine, an _airship_ , overhead. It’s a very dangerous question, Ignis knows, but he wonders all the same, craning his head back to peek at the night sky through the canopy above Eruyt, ears straining to hear the sounds of a flying machine. He recalls the echo of Prompto’s amazement about the concept and it makes the question burn in his mind so starkly that Ignis eventually cracks and tips his head toward the branches, the leaves drifting through them with the wind that answers him.

_It is as life and death are._

Much like many of the answers the Green Word gives him as of late, it is hardly helpful and all Ignis can glean from it is that flying is likely very dangerous and not something he should allow Prompto to think on overmuch. This is, of course, little better than a child’s logic, but it is the best the Wood can give him.

He means to relay his concerns to Prompto the next day, but when morning comes he discovers Prompto quiet, pensive, and all but ignoring Ignis in favour of staring beyond the trees surrounding Eruyt, eyes focused on something far away that Ignis cannot see. And Ignis is only a few years older than Prompto, but he has been deeply involved in the village’s affairs for some time now. He’s seen other Viera like this before. The thing is--he has rarely seen them since.

The realization strikes fear into Ignis’ heart, but he doesn’t admit it to anyone else. Were anyone else to pay attention to Prompto long enough to notice it, they’d likely be glad. Usually, they latch on and dig their claws in and the Wood’s whispers become more insistent in their companion’s ears in an attempt to prevent the Longing from getting its hooks into their very heart and bones. Usually, it works and the Viera in question remains in the village. Sometimes, however, the Longing is too strong, and they do not remain.

The Wood will speak to him, warn him, but no one in the village will latch onto Prompto and remind him of his duty to them, to the Wood. Ignis _knows_ this. They will push him out if they notice. They will tear him from Ignis’ grasp and, worst of all, Prompto will let them. He’ll _let_ them push him out, exile him, and he’ll go into the outside world more alone than he’s ever been.

The Wood is kind and gentle to her children, yes, but she is unforgiving to those who abandon her, even more so than the inhabitants of the village can ever be. Ignis doesn’t wish her scorn on anyone.

So, he tries to do what others won’t. He digs his claws in--subtly, because Prompto has said nothing on the matter--and tries to remind him that their home is in the arms of the Wood, that the outside world is not meant for them. That he doesn’t want to lose his kindest friend, because the forest would be colder in his absence.

But as the days pass, Prompto’s thoughts wander further and further, and Ignis often finds him tracing his claws over the leather cover of his book, running the pads of his fingers along the pen and paper leaves inside. And then, one day as evening sets its golden glow on Eruyt’s paths, he asks Ignis, “What do you think it’s like out there?”

His voice is so small, so quiet and uncertain that even Ignis’ sharp ears struggle to catch it, and Ignis knows at that moment that his cause is lost. There is no breath that the Wood does not hear, and even if Prompto were to somehow deceive her, Ignis knows the inevitable when he sees it.

The Longing is deeper in Prompto than Ignis has ever seen or could ever fear. He will leave Eruyt, alone if he must. Ignis steels himself and prepares. It is inevitable.

 

 

***

 

 

Prompto can’t help it. He knows what everyone says--what the Green Word dictates--but every time his thoughts wander he can’t bring himself to drag them back to where they should be. Maybe the book was a mistake, but he can’t even fathom getting rid of it. He just… wants to know.

Galbana lilies look so beautiful on the page. All the cacti, too, in their own funny way. There’s a strain of orchid that only grows in the Paramina Rift, too, and such a thing is inconceivable to him. The Rift is to the east, he knows this from the pilgrims, but he also knows that those mountains are extremely cold all the time. How can an orchid survive there?

How can a lily survive in a desert?

How can all these places be so different from the jungle?

He shouldn’t think about these things. Ignis tells him continuously not to worry so much about them.

But Prompto just can’t help it.

So, he asks one day, wonders what it must be like out there. Ignis, his only friend in the village, considers a nearby vine with something approaching dawning sadness in his eyes before he answers, “I would imagine it is quite different. The whole world is not like the Wood, after all.”

Prompto almost apologizes because he’s caught on to what Ignis and the Wood have been trying to do, and he’s never meant for anyone but himself to feel the consequences of his stupidity, but then Ignis tells him that the night will be cooler than most and he should go to sleep soon,  and then he slips away into the growing dimness of night. He glides away from Prompto with graceful steps that Prompto has never managed to perfect, and Prompto knows that his last chance is gone. He dared to turn his back from the Wood and so she and all her children--his only friend among them--have done the same to him.

It stings. It _hurts_. Prompto doesn’t try to convince himself that it doesn’t this time. He’s all alone, but--

\--he’s always been alone, hasn’t he? A village aide allowing themselves to humour him out of pity is different than having a friend.

It still hurts, though, like the enchanted arrow he’d received in exchange for a bundle of Viera-made arrows has been driven into his chest, hot metal burning his ribs and heart.

But despite the pain, it doesn’t stop him. He’s learned all he can from the Wood. Prompto knows this now, is grateful for it even though he knows the Wood will never forgive him. As much as he would like to stay in the familiar comfort of her boughs, he also knows that he needs to leave.

The Viera never truly accepted him anyway.

So, he goes home and he prepares.

He’s accumulated too many trinkets and such over the years to take them all with him. He needs his armour and weapons to stay safe on the road and he can wear those out, but his pack can only fit so much else.

His botany book is definitely coming. Some food as well so that he doesn’t have to hunt immediately. Extra clothes. Empty pages and pens. His most valuable trinkets--a pretty blue jewel with a silver back and fine silver chain that he’d found caught in a vine; a few bracelets traded over the years; a smooth gold ring that Ignis said had been enchanted with some kind of magick--and a few ingredients to make medicine. A few pilgrims and other travellers had given him something called gil, which he’d learned over time is a form of currency used outside, and he digs up as much of it as he can find and stashes it all in the bottom of his pack. He’ll definitely need some money.

And… that’s it. He looks around his bedroom, committing everything he’ll be leaving behind to memory. He’ll never see them again after tonight. He’ll never sleep in this bed again or hear these branches creaking, these leaves whispering. He doesn’t even dare to listen to them now, now. He only watches them, knowing that if he listens he will hear a farewell at best and nothing at all at worst.

He’ll never hear the Green Word again. He’ll never hear Ignis’ voice either. Rightfully so; he’s turning his back on them.

It still hurts, though, as he crawls into bed and dries his eyes on the corners of his blanket. It hurts even more to stay, is the thing. All the loneliness and pity--he can’t do it. Not for hundreds of years, if a half-blood will even live that long. Not for the Wood. Not for anyone.

So, he wakes up in the early morning, before all but the Wood-Warders, dresses in his armour with his bow and quiver, shoulders his pack with all the belongings he has left, and he goes.

He passes by the trees that have grown so familiar since he arrived here, approaches the gates of the village with as much poise as he can muster, trying his best to mimic Ignis’ impeccable posture, and with one last glance at the Wood-Warders posted there, little more than silence passing between them, he leaves Eruyt.

He does not hear the Wood whisper as he walks away, knees trembling through all his best efforts to steady them. He hears only the scoff and murmur and the Wood-Warders. _Good riddance_.

Yes. It really is better this way.

Golmore Jungle is always dim at best and dark at worst. The trees are too large, the vegetation clinging them too thick, to let any real sunlight filter through, especially in the early morning. Prompto has no trouble navigating its maze, though. His eyes aren’t as keen as the average Viera’s, but he knows the paths better than most. He knows the best routes that lead _outside_ , even though he’s never taken them all the way. He opts for one that isn’t hidden at all--he’s not Viera anymore. He shouldn’t travel as one.

He should go as everyone else does, walking the well-worn path of the pilgrims. They usually travel east through the jungle, making for a place called Bur Omisace, where people called Kiltias live, but Prompto heads west instead. That’s where he’s almost certain he can reach the Ozmone Plain, the place that will lead him to so many other places.

That’s where the chocobos are. He wants to see them before he goes anywhere cold.

He walks for what feels like ages without seeing another soul. Realistically, he walks for less than an hour, but there are moments where every step feels like a mile and he has to urge himself to continue. It stings, but it will be better once he’s outside, where the world is waiting. It’ll be better, it _will_ be, even though Ignis stands in his way.

Prompto freezes on the spot--because _Ignis is standing in his way_. He materialized from the shadows without a sound, smoother than Prompto ever managed to even in the same light armour Prompto wears and a lance clinging to his back, and now he’s directly in Prompto’s path wearing an expression so neutral it’s painful to see.

Prompto doesn’t want this. He wanted his last memory of Ignis to be of his back so that he wouldn’t have to live the rest of his life with this. But Ignis had seen this coming a mile away and dashed that hope. Why does he have to be so _cruel_ when Prompto is trying to spare them both?

“You’re leaving,” Ignis says plainly. It’s no question, simply a fact.

Prompto nods once. “Mhm. I think it’s time.”

Ignis steps closer much like a panther approaches game caught in a Viera hunter’s trap. “There’s no returning once you turn your back. You know this.”

Prompto nods again. He knows. But it’s not as if he’s turning his back on much. There’s the Wood and there’s Ignis. Both of them are here to see him go, their judgement as hard as iron.

Ignis holds his hand out. “Your pack.”

This, too, is not a question or a request. Prompto has ice in his veins, but he lets his pack slide from his shoulder anyway. He doesn’t want this to be harder than it has to be. “I’m not taking anything important to the village or the Wood,” he says as he hands it over. “It’s--they’re only my things. The things I wanted to take with me. That’s all, I promise.”

Ignis looks through it anyway, only dipping his hand inside to poke one or two things out of the way. His face takes on a distinct form of disappointment, sharp and sad at the same time, and accompanied by a sigh that shatters the ice clinging to Prompto’s bones and turns it to lightning instead.

Those are _his_ things. No matter what Ignis thinks, no matter how much he pretended to be a friend, those are _Prompto’s_ and he can’t take them. Prompto takes a half step forward, reaching to snatch his belongings back--

\--but then Ignis looks up at him and tilts his head and asks, “Where is your blanket?”

And Prompto freezes all over again. “My… blanket?”

“Your blanket,” Ignis repeats, blinking. “A pillow is less of a concern, your pack will suffice--but the rest of Ivalice is not like Golmore or Eruyt, you know this. Possibly better than anyone in the village. What were you planning to do at night?”

Prompto had planned to sleep. But beyond that… He figured he’d be able to find a place to sleep well enough, and he’d be able to keep himself warm with what he had. “I… I thought I’d make that plan when I got to it.”

Ignis ties the pack up again tightly and hands it back to Prompto. “I thought as much,” he says, and for a split second Prompto almost thinks he sounds gentle.

He turns around before Prompto can finish thinking that through and reaches into the darkness that he’d slipped out of in the first place. First, he pulls from it a light looking pack with a compact roll of fabric attached to it and slings it across his back, snug against the lance. Then, he pulls out a second roll, and only when he holds it out in front of Prompto does Prompto realize that the roll is a blanket--that Ignis has _two_ blankets. And he’s giving one to Prompto.

Prompto stammers through three different false starts before he finally lands on, “What?”

“You packed well for the most part,” Ignis explains, “but you should never underestimate the necessity of such things.” He reaches forward and wraps Prompto’s hands around the roll before stepping back again. “You’ll need this.”

The blanket is soft between Prompto’s hands even though it’s wrapped so tightly. It’s not his own--not the one he left behind, but it feels like it’ll be warm. That’s not what gets him, though, what keeps him rooted to the ground, barely able to breathe.

“You have one, too,” he points out weakly.

“Yes,” Ignis says, nodding. “We’ll both need one to stay warm at night.”

A breeze blows past them, whispering through the leaves from high above them and from deep below at the same time, a two-toned murmur that brushes past their ears. Prompto aches to listen to it, but he resists. Ignis closes his eyes briefly, but when he opens them again he gives no indication of having heard the Green Word, either.

Prompto shudders through a single step forward and shakes his head. “You can’t go. Ignis, you can’t--you’ll never be able to come back.”

“I know,” Ignis says. This time, Prompto knows his voice is meant to be gentle. Gentle, soft, and a little sad, too. But--convicted. When he meets Prompto’s gaze, his eyes are softer, too. “There is no returning to the Wood once you have left it. Once you’re gone, you are gone forever. I know this.”

“So _go back_ ,” Prompto urges him. “The Wood needs you there--”

“Perhaps,” Ignis cuts in quietly. “But you will still leave regardless and I loathe the thought of you going alone.”

Prompto blinks. “You… do?”

“There will be no village, no Wood, no Green Word.” Ignis closes his eyes again and Prompto can’t tell if the yearning in his voice is for his home, or the Longing clinging to his ribs. “Such a life for Viera is a lonely one. You don’t deserve it any more than you did the treatment from Eruyt.”

Prompto can’t believe what he’s hearing. Is he having some kind of stress dream? Will he wake up? Maybe he’ll snap back to reality if he convinces Ignis to turn back and return to the village. Ignis--Ignis was always nice to him, even if it was just pity after all. He doesn’t deserve a life without the Wood.

“You have to--” he starts, but Ignis’ eyes snap open and he shakes his head.

“I _don’t_ need to,” he says firmly. Then, lighter after a deep breath, “We might all begin as part of the Wood, Prompto, but we need not end with it as well. The world beyond us is on the move, always, and there are things we may never know if we don’t see them for ourselves. If you don’t go now, then I know it will always remain an inevitability and I will always wonder when I might lose the pleasure of your company. So, now, or then, whichever it is, when you go, you will not go alone.”

Prompto probably listens to Ignis speak better than he ever listened to the Wood. Had he listened to her properly this likely wouldn’t be happening. But it is and it’s all Prompto can do to not lose his own breath--because Ignis is right. Even if they were to turn around now, Prompto would never be able to sit still for very long. But he hadn’t counted on Ignis wanting to come with him. Ignis--focused, dutiful, everything else Viera _should_ be--will give up their home so that Prompto won’t be alone. Because Prompto really is his friend.

“And, the obvious aside,” Ignis continues with a small smile, “I must admit: I am curious about what it would be like to fly in an airship. Eruyt will never offer that to me.”

A laugh bubbles up in Prompto’s chest, watery and unbidden. He wants to fly, too, but that’s another thing he won’t be able to do in the snowy mountains. Bur Omisace is in jagd, according to the pilgrims, so airships can’t get there. They’ll have to go as far as--as wherever _Dalmasca_ is for that.

_They--_

Ignis holds his hand out. “The sun should be up. Now is as good a time as any to travel. Shall we go?”

Prompto hastily wipes his eyes dry and fumbles with his new blanket to get it attached to his pack before throwing it back over his shoulder. He then bounds through the last half step he needs to reach Ignis’ hand and grabs it between his own. It’s warm and steady, confident despite the fact that Prompto feels like they’re about to walk into the abyss.

Maybe they are, too, but every step is easier now that he isn’t alone. He and Ignis walk the path of outsiders together, the distance between their backs and their home growing every second.

Except, as they reach the edges of the jungle, as the trees fall away and sunlight falls on their faces stronger than they’ve ever felt it before, the Wood is no longer their home. Between one step and the next, there are no whispers on the wind, no muted murmurs for their ears to catch. The silence is ringing, deafening--but unlike Prompto’s expectation, it isn’t painful.

It’s simply quiet. A bird flutters by. Something rustles in the grass, through the great fields and hills stretching on before them. Ignis pulls a compass out of a pocket in his pack and then smiles, warm and reassuring.

And for the first time, as Prompto and Ignis take their first steps into the rest of Ivalice waiting in front of them, nothing hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> Me at the beginning of this: this is the story of a bunch of friends meeting up and getting into shenanigans with each other--  
> Me half way through part 1: I guess I'm writing eventual promnis?? 
> 
> I wrote all in one go but I've been thinking about it on and off because, honestly, FFXII is my jam. Love it. Also love creating silly crossovers. I have this labelled as having two parts, the second of which the other bros will be in, but it might get bigger, although it's Probably fine. Ya gal likes to ramble in fic is all.


End file.
